Page 50 of Fallen Nocturne

My mind turns to the coming war, to mammoths and mage warriors and dwarven weapons perfected for slaughter.

I think of Rhianelle in Aelfheim, the mate bond pulsing warm in my chest.

I need to warn her.

Chapter 7 Rhianelle

Landon barely escaped with his life.

The messenger’s words keep echoing in my head as I hurry through the corridors. That golden thread between us pulls taut with distance. It has been screaming all morning. Now I know why.

He returned home hours ago and went straight to his quarters. I’m glad Landon and some of his warriors agreed to take up residence in the Wiolant House.

I move quickly, my feet silent out of habit. Nine hundred years in Astefar have trained the sound out of my steps. The palace halls are quiet, afternoon light slanting through tall windows.

I need to see him and know he is truly alive and safe.

His door is slightly ajar when I reach it.

I push it open carefully and step inside.

The chamber is much smaller than the one I originally assigned to him. I’d given him the east-facing quarters with warm morning sunlight and a sitting area. Landon gave that room to one of his warriors who arrived with a wife and two young children, insisting he had no need for the extra space.

His own quarters hold little more than a narrow bed against one wall, a wardrobe, and a desk cluttered with papers and books. Slumped in the chair behind it is Landon.

My breath catches.

He’s fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back against the chair with one arm hanging loose at his side. His dark-red hair is disheveled and there are scratches on his face, a bruise darkening his jaw.

But he is breathing, alive and safe.

The knot beneath my ribs loosens for the first time since the messenger arrived.

I move closer, quiet as a ghost, and that’s when I notice the books.

They are everywhere, spread across the desk, stacked on the floor beside him, with one still clutched loosely in his hand.

The Anatomy of Wyvern Flight and Structural Deficiencies in Youngling Wings.

My throat tightens.

He’s been researching. Even after nearly dying, even exhausted enough to collapse in his chair, he’s been trying to find a way to help Coral.

I study his sleeping face in the afternoon light. The strong line of his jaw, the copper lashes against his cheeks, the way his mouth relaxes in sleep. The golden string hums between us, warm and steady.

This is my mate. The one the gods have chosen for me.

Carefully, I reach for the book in his hand. My fingers touch his as I try to ease it away.

I stole a book from the masked man last night too. I am always taking things from the dark castle, daring him to notice and come after me.

Heat floods my face as last night’s dream crashes over me.

His hand fisted in my hair, his other hand wrapped around my throat as he takes me from behind, rough and demanding. The rasp of his voice in my ear. “Say you’re sorry again.” The way I’d begged, sobbed, surrendered completely to him in that dark palace.

My cheeks burn. I can feel the phantom sensation of it, the weight of his palm against my throat, the delicious pressure.

But his actual hand, the one I’m touching right now, feels... nothing like that.